


until our veins run red and blue

by ephemeralsky



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Exy (All For The Game), Don't copy to another site, Light Angst, M/M, POV Andrew Minyard, Pining, Pre-Slash, lots of (attempted) feel-good vibes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2020-01-31 05:29:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18584725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralsky/pseuds/ephemeralsky
Summary: Andrew has heard all the rumors about Neil Josten, extrapolations that the students make from the morsels of information they could pick out ever since he moved here in the middle of the academic year. Some say that he was sold to the mafia at a young age; others insist that he is the son of a crime lord from the east coast.One other ridiculous thing about Neil is that girls find his enigmatic aura and brooding facade irresistible, but most of the boys find the whole thing aggravating, like they think that Neil is somehow limiting their own chances of fishing girls and getting laid. The fact that a mousy and unremarkable thing like Neil opened his mouth long enough to bluntly reject the advances of a senior cheerleader has sparked a mini storm in their little high school.Andrew deems it all banal.(or: a high school AU where nobody has to worry about an impending mafia war)





	1. hollow like the bottles that we drain

**Author's Note:**

> I looked at all the high school AUs in the fandom, including [ the one I wrote](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12490040), and thought 'hey, you know what would be great? ANOTHER high school AU!!!'
> 
> Originally posted [ here ](https://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com/post/171061493813/written-as-a-pinch-hit-for-idnis-as-part-of-the) on tumblr. 
> 
> TWs: ableist language, violence, bullying
> 
> Title of the fic and chapter are derived from Lorde's "400 Lux"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I looked at all the high school AUs in the fandom, including [ the one I wrote](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12490040), and thought 'hey, you know what would be great? ANOTHER high school AU!!!'
> 
> Originally posted [ here ](https://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com/post/171061493813/written-as-a-pinch-hit-for-idnis-as-part-of-the) on tumblr. 
> 
> TWs: ableist language, violence, bullying
> 
> Title of the fic and chapter are derived from Lorde's "400 Lux"

The thing about Andrew is that he is always watching.

Charles Darwin dubbed himself a machine that observed facts and ground out conclusions. Andrew is very much the same; he is a machine that observes facts and churns out hypotheses and scenarios, different permutations of how the core principles can mutate and evolve. The only difference is that he uses the word ‘machine’ in its literal sense. It’s what everybody around him thinks, anyway.

Call it paranoia, but Andrew likes to be meticulous, to be able to predict how the people around him will behave and act under normal and abnormal circumstances. He has always believed that it is better to be safe than sorry, but maybe that can be credited to the fact that he doesn’t believe in regrets.

His latest object of scrutiny is a five-foot-three redhead by the name of Neil Josten. 

He’s a scrawny little thing, all long limbs and overgrown, messy hair. He wears nothing but oversized hoodies that are either in grey or a lighter shade of grey, the hood almost always pulled over his head like he doesn’t want anybody to see his face, which is - a shame, if Andrew were to be frank. From the glimpses that Andrew has managed to steal, Neil has a nice face, with a delicate nose and chiseled cheekbones that could cut through glass. It’s an ironic thing to say, because the right side of Neil’s face is marred by two long, jagged knife scars. As if being a scarred runt isn’t pathetic enough, Neil is also part of the mathematics club.

The scars and failed attempt at blending in are mildly interesting, but what really keeps Andrew on his toes is the sharp look in Neil’s muddy brown eyes. He keeps his head ducked and his body curled like he wants to fit himself into the corner of the walls or merge into the shadows, but Andrew sees past all that; he sees the needlelike focus in Neil’s eyes, the firm set of his jaw like he’s biting his tongue, the vigilance in his shoulders like an iron rod, the jitteriness in his wiry frame like he will make a run for it at a moment’s notice.

Andrew has heard all the rumors about Neil Josten, extrapolations that the students make from the morsels of information they could pick out ever since he moved here in the middle of the academic year. Some say that he was sold to the mafia at a young age; others insist that he is the son of a crime lord from the east coast. Most agree that he is quiet, bland, which is how a few of the seniors started razzing him - he’s such an easy target, they like to boast. But what began as juvenile insults escalated into pure bullying when the ex-girlfriend of one of the dickheads asked Neil out and got publicly rejected during lunch at the cafeteria.

Another ridiculous thing about Neil is that girls find his enigmatic aura and brooding facade irresistible, but most of the boys find the whole thing aggravating, like they think that Neil is somehow limiting their own chances of fishing girls and getting laid. The fact that a mousy and unremarkable thing like Neil opened his mouth long enough to bluntly reject the advances of a senior cheerleader has sparked a mini storm in their little high school.

Andrew deems it all banal.

Today, like all the other days, Jefferson greets Neil good morning with a body slam that sends Neil careening into the lockers. As he and his buddies totter down the hallway, bumping each other’s fists and tossing their heads back in malicious laughter, Neil remains slumped against the lockers, chest heaving as he sucks in a deep breath, his eyes closed. He looks like he is trying to collect all semblance of patience and control.

Andrew wonders with detached curiosity if Neil will snap and burst into flames at some point, a match dropped into a tank of oil, or if he will continue to let himself be the resident punching bag.

His question gets answered later in the week when an unsuspecting freshman bumps into Jefferson at the cafeteria and spills the food on his tray over Jefferson’s jersey.

It’s one of the rare days that Andrew spends lunch period at the cafeteria; it’s snowing outside, which means that it is far too cold for Andrew to climb up to the roof for a smoke. But filching cups of pudding from other people’s trays can be a fun way to pass the time, so Andrew stays indoors and ignores the rest of his peers as he finds an empty corner with his stack of stolen pudding and shovels spoonfuls of the dessert into his mouth.

When Jefferson grabs the freshman by the collar and pins him to the table next to Andrew’s, everybody around them makes a noise of surprise, staring wide-eyed at them.

Andrew couldn’t care less; he knows how this type of situation normally plays out.

Hypothesis: People like to stick to the status quo.

Prediction: The bullied cowers in fear and sputters out apologies, the bully gets a few punches in, the spectators whip out their phones and murmur amongst themselves, and in the anticlimactic finale, the teacher arrives at the scene a little too late and ushers the bullied to the nurse’s office.

Conclusion: Same old, same old.  

As Jefferson draws an arm back in preparation for a punch, a penknife zips through the air and slices the side of his hand. He keens in a cry of pain as the crowd falls into stunned silence. The knife skitters onto the floor near Andrew’s feet, blood smearing a part of the blade, and his eyes snap towards the direction the knife flew from.

“Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size for a change?”

Collectively, everybody turns their heads towards Neil, who’s standing on the bench a few tables over. His hands are stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie, and his eyes are deceptively calm.

“What did you just say to me?” Jefferson demands, cradling his bleeding hand against his chest.

“I didn’t know that you were hard of hearing in addition to being stupid,” Neil says, head tilted to the side in mocking pity. A few students snicker.

“You little shit,” Jefferson snarls, “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Neil grins, razor-sharp. “I would like to see you try.”

As Jefferson charges at him, Neil leaps off the bench, swerving from left to right to avoid getting punched. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in speed. It also helps that Jefferson’s movements are sloppy, his cheeks flushed from getting humiliated in public and his hand steadily dripping blood onto the floor. At one point, he slips over some of it and barely manages to hold himself upright.

Seeing an opportunity, Neil smashes his fist into Jefferson’s face.

Hypothesis: Rejected.

The crowd around them reacts with gasps and exclamations of astonishment.  

One of Jefferson’s friends - Ruiz - springs up behind Neil and twists his arms behind him. Struggling to free himself from the hold, Neil doesn’t manage to evade the oncoming hit from Davis, a different guy in Jefferson’s clique.

Andrew has an empty tray in his hands and is bashing it into Ruiz’s head before he realizes he’s even moving. As Ruiz crumples to the ground with a groan, Andrew swings a kick to Davis’s groin. Without wasting any time, Andrew catches Neil’s wrist, yanking him away from the scene and remembering to snatch the penknife before they book it out of the cafeteria.  

He hears the principal’s voice bellowing a “What’s going on here?” as he and Neil run through the hallways.

Impossibly, Neil laughs, delirious, and Andrew doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more addictive sound.

He leads them outside to his car, unlocking the doors with his key fob and letting go of Neil’s wrist as they hop inside the vehicle. Andrew cranks the engine and heater on after he locks the doors, trying to catch his breath. Beside him, Neil runs a hand through his hair, snowflakes clinging to the auburn strands. His hair is a crimson pharos against the grimy, snowing backdrop. There is the hint of a smile on his lips, and Andrew catches himself staring just as Neil turns to face him.

“I’ve wanted to punch that asshole since the first day I moved here,” Neil says. “Glad I finally did.”

“Took you long enough,” Andrew remarks, impassive.

Neil blinks, twice, expression pulled into mild surprise. But then it changes back into boyish delight. “So you do talk.”

When Andrew does nothing but stare at him, he gives a light shake of his head.

“Rumor has it that you haven’t spoken a word to anyone ever since you got off your court-mandated medication,” Neil says as if he’s reciting the words from a passage.

“You know who I am,” Andrew says, not a question.

“Everybody knows who you are,” Neil says easily.

Good, Andrew thinks. He has let the rumors surrounding his history circulate like wildfire for the past couple of years; it has built his reputation for him and kept others from venturing too close without him ever having to actually do anything. His perpetually blank expression and all-black ensemble have lent a hand in fortifying the forcefield around him, and he wants it to stay that way until graduation.

“And your locker is right across mine,” Neil continues.

Andrew meets Neil’s stare, twisting around in his seat and draping a hand over the steering wheel.

“How are you sure which twin I am?”

Neil raises his eyebrows. “Are you seriously asking me that question? You two are so different from each other.” He stabs a slender finger in Andrew’s direction. “First of all, you wear black all the time. Second, your armbands. Third, your face.” Neil passes a hand over his face as he says this, mouth and eyes a mimicry of Andrew’s flat expression. “Your face is like this all the time, but your brother’s isn’t. Fourth - ” he pauses, his eyes raking over Andrew’s upper body as he tips his head to the side and frowns slightly. “I think you might have more muscle than him, too.”  

Andrew doesn’t know how Neil could say that in such a straightforward, non-sexual manner, but he pushes this thought to the side and says, “I know who you are, too.”

Neil goes stiff, his expression shuttered. “Is that so?”

Huh, Andrew thinks. The kid’s secrets might just be as big as the rumors suggest.

Andrew holds one finger up. “You are a lousy fighter,” he says, sliding his gaze to the blossoming bruise on one side of Neil’s face. He holds up a second finger as he continues his list. “And you have an atrocious fashion sense.”

“My clothes help me blend in,” Neil snaps. “And I may not know how to properly throw a punch, but I can at least -”

“Throw knives?” Andrew interrupts, bored. When he plucks the penknife out of his pocket, Neil’s eyes widen, just a fraction.

“You picked it up,” he says. “Thanks.”

Andrew flips the knife over in his hand, studying the shape and weight. It looks quite expensive, and extremely sharp.

Neil swipes it off his palm, and Andrew seizes his wrist just before he could pull away. Neil tries to wrench out of his grip, but Andrew holds on even tighter, until he can hear bones creaking.

“Why did you help me?” Neil asks in a vicious tone, teeth bared. “What do you want from me?”

Andrew gazes at him. He has never gotten a close, proper look at Neil, but now that he has, he notices the ring around Neil’s irises; he is wearing contact lenses. Andrew wonders if brown is even Neil’s real eye color.

“I want nothing,” he informs Neil. “But you are puzzling, and I intend to figure you out.”

Neil’s mouth flattens into a terse line. “I’ve never done anything to you before. Leave me alone.”

“Not to me, no,” Andrew allows. “But after what I have seen today, I will not take any chances.”

Neil scowls deeply. It’s a good look on him, if Andrew were to be honest.

“It’s a one time thing,” Neil insists, “do you really think that I’m going to slash everyone with my knife just because they’re acting like an asshat?”

Andrew gives the ghost of a shrug. “Better to be safe than sorry. Fool me once, strike one. Fool me twice, strike three.”

A huge frown overtakes Neil’s face. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Pop culture references fly over his head. Great.

“That is what makes it funny,” Andrew says.

Neil rolls his eyes. “Are you a comedian now?” Then: “Let go of me.”

Andrew lets go of him, watching unsympathetically as Neil rubs his wrist and pockets his knife.

“Look, it’s nice of you to lend a help and all, but I would really appreciate it if you just leave me the fuck alone after this.”

“They are going to make your life a living hell,” Andrew says, matter-of-fact.

“I think I can handle a bunch of high school bullies,” Neil says coolly. “I’ve handled worse.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I thought you knew all about me?” Neil says, faux-confusion gracing his features.

“How about a deal?” Andrew proposes, ignoring Neil’s little dig.

“Oh? Do tell,” Neil says, a perfect imitation of Andrew.

Andrew’s only response is an unimpressed look.

Neil eyes him skeptically. “What would you even offer me?”

“Protection.”

“Like I said, I’m perfectly capable of -”

“I will teach you how to fight.”

Neil narrows his eyes at him. “And in return?”

“You will teach me how to use knives.”

Neil fidgets with the end of his sleeves, pulling them over his knuckles. “How do you know that I’m even good enough to teach you?” he says quietly. “And why should I take your words seriously?”

“I observe people, and I listen,” Andrew says plainly. “And I only speak the truth.”

“So you’re basically saying you’re a watered-down, counterfeit version of the Lorax,” Neil quips. When all Andrew does is stare stone-faced at him, he shrugs. “I know  _some_  pop culture references. I haven’t been living under a rock, you know.”

“What is your answer?” Andrew presses.

Neil looks out the windshield as he mulls it over.

Hypothesis: Neil, like everybody else, thinks that Andrew is a soulless machine.

Prediction: Neil refuses the deal, and he will never speak to Andrew or associate himself with him ever again, and they pretend that this conversation never happened.

Conclusion: Andrew should really know better.

“Alright,” Neil says, turning towards Andrew again. “I accept.”

Andrew looks at the fake color of his eyes, at his busted pink lips, at the stubborn lines of his face, at the way he meets Andrew’s gaze unflinchingly.

Hypothesis: Rejected. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the chapters were written such that they can be read as stand-alones. If - after I've posted the following chapters - you feel like the chapters don't transition into each other seamlessly, this might be why. This chapter, in particular, was originally written to be a one-shot, but I guess you can never know where life brings you ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> My [tumblr](http://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com).


	2. never done with killing time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Andrew and Neil commit a few crimes and get away with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](https://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com/post/175742458443/are-you-taking-prompts-from-the-list-you).
> 
> CW: Bullying, implied homophobia, references to child abuse
> 
> Title of chapter is from Lorde's '400 Lux'

The thing about Andrew is that he is always watching.

“They’re not going to make it,” Neil predicts around a mouthful of popcorn, and true enough, the protagonist and his band of merry men indeed do not make it through the portal that would bring them to their home planet. While the characters on the television screen cuss and wallow at the face of adversity, Neil turns to Andrew. “These things are too predictable. Unrealistic too.”

Andrew hums in unspoken agreement, lightly kicking Neil’s foot so that he would return his attention back to the screen.

Andrew watches Neil as Neil watches the movie.

He doesn’t know how they went from having sparring and knife lessons to lying around in Andrew’s living room, but he doesn’t think it’s - bad. Not at all.

They usually meet up after school at the community gym in Andrew’s neighborhood, on days that Neil doesn’t have Math club activities. Neil teaches him how to handle a knife, and he teaches Neil how to hold his ground in a fistfight.

Neil was prickly and reluctant at first; Andrew had expected him to renege his part of the deal after a couple of sessions. His predictions never came true though, the hypotheses he spun crumbling away without any proof to support them. Neil has upheld his part of the bargain, and Andrew has upheld his.

Clipped retorts and heavy silence pervaded their meetings in the beginning. Then Andrew had asked, “Where did you learn how to use knives?”

Neil’s entire frame had coiled with tension, snappable as a taut wire, and he had snarled, “It’s none of your business.”

Then he had turned away and quietly said, “My father.” He had looked at Andrew again and asked, “Why did they put you on medication?”

Andrew’s mind had gone through a series of scenarios of how it could all play out depending on his answer. Surely Neil had learned the reason from the gossip mills at school: _he had beaten four kids half to death in middle school, he’s violent, he’s crazy, he’s psychotic_.

Then he had looked at Neil and said, “They misdiagnosed me, and they thought it could be a way to put a leash on me.”

It all came cascading down from there; a question for a question, a truth for a truth, a vulnerability for a vulnerability.

They are two kids who have grown too old, too fast.

Nowadays, after their training sessions, Neil follows him home. He queues up his favorite shows for Neil to watch and Neil queues up a string of biting commentary that is more entertaining than anything Andrew has on his Netflix account. Neil’s knowledge on popular culture isn’t limited like Andrew initially thought it was, but it is obscure and random, and Andrew learns as many new things as Neil does.

They both startle when they hear the sound of jingling keys from the front door.

“Boys?” Nicky’s voice rings out as Andrew hits pause. “Are you home? I brought back some waffles from work.”

His cousin is home early today - he must’ve had a different shift. It shouldn’t send a stab of annoyance through Andrew, but it does; the disruption to his and Neil’s private time is not something he expected to deal with today.

Nicky bypasses the living room for the kitchen, the snick and thump of the refrigerator door opening and closing preceding his approaching footsteps.

“Andrew, why didn’t you answer when I - oh!” Nicky’s face changes from exasperation to absolute delight when he sees that Andrew isn’t alone on the couch. “Neil, I didn’t know you were here! How about some waffles? Have you had anything to drink?”

“I’m alright, thank you,” Neil says, shrinking into the couch, eyes on the carpet. He had pulled his hoodie up as soon as the locks to the front door had turned. This is his second time meeting Nicky, and it’s clear that he isn’t entirely comfortable in his presence just yet.

Instead of being pushy like Andrew predicted, Nicky’s garish grin softens. “Okay,” he says, almost gently, “let me know if you change your mind and want anything, alright? Feel free to stay for as long as you want.”

Andrew stares at him with his habitual look of indifference, but Nicky somehow catches on to the question in his eyes because he shrugs and says, “I took Mel’s shift today, so I finished early. Make sure you eat the waffles before we leave for Eden’s tonight, okay? And leave some for Aaron.”

Andrew gives a small nod, because he’s not a _complete_ asshole who ignores his legal guardian all the time. Flashing Andrew a smile and an unsubtle nudge of his chin towards Neil, Nicky goes to his room.

His first meeting with Neil only occurred because Andrew had gotten his timing wrong - Nicky had just pulled out of the driveway in his mom’s old hatchback when Andrew rounded the corner into their street with Neil in the passenger seat. Nicky had skidded to a stop beside the car, window pulled down, and shouted, “Hi, there! Are you a friend of Andrew’s?”

He supposes that he can’t keep them from meeting for eternity, not if he plans on bringing Neil around so often.

Neil’s striking appearance alone hadn’t been enough of an incentive for Andrew to approach him, but his skills with a knife, his sharp tongue, the knowing glint in his eyes - they had lured Andrew in, and they provided the incentive he needed to start up an acquaintance, to prolong it. He would have been fine with watching from afar, with observing and collecting data, but he is bored, and Neil is interesting.

It’s a dangerous game he’s playing, he knows. He’s opening up parts of himself that he’s kept sealed shut for years and letting Neil see them. The fact that Neil is doing the same makes it even more dangerous, even more electrifying.

They are both still kids, in the end.

“Nicky seems…nice,” Neil mumbles, twisting the string of his hoodie around a finger.

“But you were nervous in his presence,” Andrew points out.

“I just thought that he would be mad, that you’re having me over.” Neil gives a one-shouldered shrug. “Before you, I had never been to a friend’s house, so I didn’t know what to expect, if a parent came home or something.”

 _Before you_ , he says, so honestly and easily. _A friend_ , he says, so shyly and sweetly.

Andrew keeps his face still. He lightly kicks Neil’s foot again and resumes the movie, ignoring the way Neil’s lips curl into a faint smile and the way his palms are starting to feel sweaty. When Neil’s attention is back on the screen, Andrew swings his gaze back to Neil’s face.

The thing about Andrew is that he can’t stop watching, but he figures that if nobody else notices, it would not be a problem.

*

“I’ve noticed the way you keep looking at him,” Aaron tells him across the breakfast counter a week later.

So, it might be a problem.

Andrew continues scooping cereal into his mouth as if Aaron hadn’t spoken to him.

“People talk about it, you know. They say that you’re -” Aaron’s face screws into a tight grimace.

“That I am what?” Andrew prompts, a challenge in his calm voice.

Aaron glares at him, as if Andrew has ever been affected by it.

“That you’re gay,” Aaron spits out.

It’s not like Andrew has been keeping it a secret.

“And?”

His twin recoils. It truly is strange, to see a facsimile of himself undergo so many outward reactions and emotions. “So it’s true, then?”

“Shocked to be the token straight in the family?”

Aaron grits his teeth, annoyance written all over his face. “That’s not the point. I’m just trying to understand why you’re suddenly letting someone get all chummy with you, least of all someone like Josten.”

Andrew’s grip on his spoon tightens, but Aaron isn’t finished.

“The kid is suspicious as fuck, not to mention the scars on his -”

Andrew slams the metal spoon against the counter, the dissonant clang effectively shutting Aaron up. The dark look he sends Aaron’s way should be enough to swallow his brother whole; the source of his anger, boiling under his skin and threatening to ooze through his pores - it certainly feels like it could eat him from the inside out.

“I have never said anything about your tasteless choice in girls. I suggest you keep your mouth shut before I make you regret it.”

Aaron blinks, like he’s surprised by Andrew’s reaction. Andrew himself is a little taken aback by his measured outburst.

With a shake of his head, Aaron makes a cutting gesture and leaves the kitchen. “Fine. Do whatever you want.”

Nicky emerges next, yawning as he rubs his bleary eyes. “What happened? I heard you guys arguing.”

Andrew stares into his cereal bowl, corralling his emotions and locking them away.

Nicky sighs when he realizes that he won’t get an answer. “Just don’t go to school first and leave him behind like you did last time, okay?”

Which is exactly what Andrew does, of course.

He finds Neil frowning into his locker as other students bustle down the hallway. He leans against the locker next to Neil’s, completely forgoing his own. Neil glances at him, but the frown doesn’t disappear.

“Those assholes,” he mutters.

Andrew peers into the locker to inspect what damage has been done to Neil’s belongings today. A grainy photo of him is put up among a few candles and some chrysanthemums to resemble a shrine for the deceased; they must have broken into his locker to set it up. As unimaginative as always.

Neil snuffs out the candles with a few blows before grabbing a textbook and banging his locker shut.

“Rest in peace,” Andrew says blandly.

“I’m dead inside anyway,” Neil says wryly, turning towards the direction of his class, “so I guess this is just swell.”

Andrew grips his elbow to stop him from walking, swivelling him back around until that they’re standing toe to toe. He takes inventory, eyes raking all over Neil’s body and face. When he finds no injury, he lets go, ignoring the puzzled look Neil gives him.

He walks him to his classroom and goes to his own, slumping down on his sequestered seat at the back.

The small group of football jocks that have been targeting Neil since early in the year are a nuisance more than anything. Their tactics are predictable, and they haven’t tried to lay a finger on Neil ever since Neil slashed their leader’s hand and punched his face in while Andrew knocked out a few of his friends. Andrew has also planted the seeds to one of their school’s hottest gossips: Neil Josten is under Andrew Minyard’s protection, and Andrew Minyard is a monster, so you better think twice before you touch what’s his.

As long as they stick to their childish bullying, Andrew won’t have to keep them in line.

It is, however, getting insurmountably annoying.

Two weeks ago, they stole Neil’s textbooks and dumped them in the pond at the back of the school. A month ago, they spray-painted the gym wall with Neil’s name and a few misspelled slurs. Two months ago, they trashed the Math club’s activity room and pissed all over the geometric equipment.

He thinks it’s high time someone teaches them a lesson.

During lunch, he goes up to the roof to find Neil already waiting for him. They’re the only two people at school who ever climb up here, since they’re the only two people at school who know how to pick locks. Neil passes him the peanut butter and jelly sandwich his uncle made and Andrew passes him the fruit salad Nicky packed, and they eat in silence until Neil starts talking about the bake sale his club is organizing at the end of the week.

“Andrew? Are you listening?”

Andrew glances to the left, then to the right, expression unchanged. “I hear something.”

A frown takes over Neil’s face. “Me. I’m speaking. You’re hearing me.”

Andrew meets his gaze. “Didn’t you hear? You’re dead. And the dead cannot speak.”

“Hilarious,” Neil deadpans. He stabs a piece of mango with his fork and chews on it, the lines on his face indicating that he’s deep in thought. Andrew studies each one, itches to reach out and run his fingers over them.

“You know,” Neil says slowly, “the school year is almost ending.”

“I am aware,” Andrew replies, focused on the way Neil’s plush lips are glistening with fruit juice.

“Jefferson is graduating,” Neil continues, toying with his fork, the metal glinting in the sunlight as it rolls over supple fingers. “And we haven’t given him a goodbye present yet.”

His eyes dart up to meet Andrew’s, a dangerous gleam in them, and Andrew cottons on to what he is saying.

“That cannot do,” he tells Neil.

“No,” Neil concurs, “it can’t.”

“Not when he has been so generous with you these past few months.”

“Oh, yes. My chemistry textbook is still moist from its trip to the pond.”

Andrew feels the prickle of excitement at the base of his spine. He hasn’t felt it in years. “I suppose we have to return the favor.”

Neil smiles, sharp as the penknife he always carries in his pocket. “Yes,” he agrees, “I suppose we do.”

*

They frame him for inappropriate use of performance-enhancing drugs.

Andrew gets the supply from one of the servers who works at Eden’s Twilight with him, and Neil plants the evidence, slipping in and out of the football locker room like an elegant fox.

It’s easy, and it’s worth it.

He gets into a ton of trouble for it, but not enough to jeopardize his entire future in football.

A shame, really.

But Andrew lets it go, because Neil seems pleased enough by the whole shitstorm, smiling to himself after they hear that a few schools have withdrawn their athletic scholarship offers.

On the last day of school, they decide to steal his friend’s car.

Davis drives a BMW 4-series Gran Coupe and parks it in his driveway. Andrew breaks into the car, and Neil hotwires it.

As they blow through the neighborhood, Neil laughs, the sound as tantalizing as the first time Andrew heard it.

They leave the car in a playground on the other side of the city; the plan was never to keep it, only to fuck around with Davis.

Neil calls a cab to take them back to Andrew’s place because his uncle is a rich businessman who gives him a generous allowance - even though his drab wardrobe suggests otherwise. In the backseat of the cab, Andrew observes the way the city lights dance around Neil’s face in a kaleidoscope of neon colors.

They try to move soundlessly as they enter the house. Aaron and Nicky should be back from Eden’s Twilight by now, and while they’re deep sleepers, Andrew doesn’t want to risk waking them up and having them pry into his business.

They’re at the top of the stairs when Aaron’s door swings open. He notices them when he crosses the hall to the bathroom, his body going stiff. His face, after the initial surprise disappears, morphs into a scowl.

“So you skipped work to hang out with your boyfriend?”

Before Andrew can tug Neil into his room and ignore his brother like he usually does, Neil shoots back with, “What’s it to you, asshole?”

Anger flares up in Aaron’s eyes, hot and quick, his curled fists shaking. Jaw clenched, he bites out, “It’s nothing to me.”

He returns to his room, slamming the door shut.

Neil sighs, all sense of antagonism leaving him. “I don’t get your brother.”

Andrew doesn’t either, but that is not an issue he needs to deal with tonight. His fingers circle around Neil’s thin wrist as he leads them to his room.

He flicks the light on while Neil flops onto his bed, shirt riding up to expose a strip of his flat stomach. Andrew forces himself to look away, taking off his shoes and carefully lowering himself next to Neil.

Neil looks up at him, a small smile playing over his lips. “I had fun.”

“I did, too,” Andrew says, allowing himself to admit as much. He finds that he wants to tell Neil these things, to share them with him.

“I’m glad you did.” Neil curls up on his side, pillowing an arm under his head. He looks soft, body relaxed over Andrew’s bedsheets.

Andrew’s hand twitches, and he feels like he is about to do something very, very stupid. He abruptly stands, goes over to his drawers, snatches a change of clothes, and hurls them at Neil.

“Go,” he orders, pointing to the door.

Neil obeys, going out to the bathroom, his lips still curled around a smile. Andrew avoids meeting his eyes for a while, so it isn’t until he himself returns from his trip to the bathroom that he notices that Neil has removed his contact lenses.

It’s the second time Andrew’s seen his real eye color, a chilling blue that stands stark against the amber of his hair. He sits cross-legged on the bed, his phone in his hands.

“Your uncle?” Andrew asks.

Neil nods. “I texted him to let him know that I’ll be spending the night here.”

Andrew doesn’t ask anything further, but Neil explains, “He won’t mind. He’s actually glad that I’m out socializing.” With a shrug, Neil drops his phone onto the mattress. “He can be so weird about it sometimes.”

Aside from the fact that Neil’s parents are both dead and that his uncle is now his legal guardian, Andrew doesn’t know much else about Neil’s family life. The rumor which states that Neil is the son of a crime lord is debunked when Andrew asked him about it and he said that his father was less of a gangster and more of a deranged man who had an unhealthy obsession with knives; hence, the scars on the right side of his face. He left the circumstances of his parents’ deaths vague, but Andrew doesn’t need to know much else; he is satisfied just from knowing that Neil’s uncle doesn’t mistreat him.

After all, Neil didn’t press him about the details surrounding the death of Aaron’s mother; he had simply stared at Andrew with calm understanding and moved on.

Right now, he’s staring at Andrew with droopy eyes and a content smile. He’s dressed in Andrew’s clothes and perched on Andrew’s bed - and really, nothing could be worse than this.

He scrounges his closet for a spare futon and blanket, throwing them on the floor.

“Sleep,” he says, and Neil nods, sliding off his bed with a yawn.

After switching off the light, Andrew crawls under the covers and lies on his side, back against the wall and face turned towards where Neil is. His eyes adjust to the dark, and he makes out the outline of Neil’s sleeping face with the help of the street light filtering in from the window.

The thing about Andrew is that he doesn’t want to stop watching, and he thinks that it’s definitely become a problem.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [tumblr](http://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com).


	3. got a lot to not do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Andrew and Neil spend their summer together doing typical and untypical adolescent things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [ here ](https://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com/post/179704837848/ask-and-you-shall-receive-thank-you-for-the-love) on tumblr. The version I'm posting here on Ao3 is slightly different. 
> 
> CW: Mild violence, underage drinking, implied self-harm, mention of a sexual relationship between a sixteen year old and a nineteen year old.
> 
> Title of chapter taken from Lorde's '400 Lux'.

The thing about Andrew is that he finds it incredibly difficult to say no to Neil.

When he says he wants to steal a car and frame a senior for drug abuse, Andrew says  _okay_. When he says he wants to watch Megamind again because  _it’s just so ridiculous and fun_ , Andrew says  _fine_. When he says he wants to try out for the track and field team and asks Andrew to join him, Andrew says  _you owe me one_.

The sun is blinding white. Sweat drips down his brow and soaks through his armbands. The sunscreen Neil made him put on is melting off his skin like butter. Summer is abhorrent, but he supposes it beats contracting hypothermia and frostbite. Winter is his least favorite season. It’s Neil’s favorite though, because he is a heathen. 

Neil winds down to a stop near him, face flushed and hair sticking to his forehead. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t keel over after running a long distance, and Andrew rather hates him for it. 

“Time?” he pants out. 

“Three-twenty-one.”

Clicking his tongue in displeasure, Neil rests his hands on his hips. His chest heaves as he tries to regulate his breathing. 

Andrew passes him his water bottle and he guzzles it down. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyebrows scrunched together. “It’s not good enough.”

He looks captivating, red-cheeked and glistening with sweat. He wears anger well too, his eyes lit up even through the brown contacts, his plush lips hardened.

“Your sprint times are far above average.”

“But if I want to make the cut -” 

“You will have to be able to run 800 meters in less than three minutes,” Andrew interrupts. “I know.”

Neil huffs, looking away. 

“You do not need to be the fastest runner in order to join the team.”

Neil’s face unfolds, his anger slowly drained out of him like air from a punctured tire.

“You have been practicing and steadily improving over the past few weeks.”

Andrew curls a finger into the fabric of Neil’s damp t-shirt.

“Stop worrying so much. You will get grey hair by the time you’re eighteen if you don’t.”

Neil turns his face towards him, eyes twinkling with amusement. Quiet triumph rushes into Andrew’s chest like a rising tide.

“Such an inspiring pep talk. Ever considered a career as a motivational speaker?”

“I should start charging you for my services.”

“Are Snickers bars an acceptable form of payment?”

Andrew hums, tugging Neil’s shirt as he pretends to consider it.

“Only if you add a few Mars bars.”

“I’ll even give you some Whatchamacallits as a bonus.”

Neil places his bottle on the ground, starting his cool down routine. He does another circuit along the running tracks, jogging slowly. A few paces away from Andrew, he bends forward to touch his toes, his ass on full display.  

The thing about Andrew is that he is always watching. This has never been a problem, but this - this thing with Neil - 

It’s definitely a problem.  

Andrew is sweating profusely now, a different kind of heat snaking around his body like poison ivy. 

It’s cumbersome, he thinks, being sixteen and gay.

When Neil finishes his series of stretches and straightens up, Andrew shoves the stopwatch into his hand. 

Neil pockets the watch, raising an eyebrow. “So? Have you decided what you’re trying out for?”

“Who said I was going to try out?”

“You did.”

Andrew exhales through his mouth; an inaudible sigh. They could have been sparring at the gym instead of wasting time here on the school field. But Andrew has yet learned the complex art of saying no to Neil, so here he stands, getting sunburnt and telling Neil that he might try the shot put or discus throw.

Sweat sluices down Neil’s temple and cheekbone, dripping off his chiseled jawline. Most of them are still shedding off their baby fat; Neil, on the other hand, looks like he could use some more meat. 

“You’d be great at them,” he says with a nod. “You have really strong arms and shoulders, after all.”

Andrew doesn’t know how he can say that with a straight face and mean it. He also doesn’t know when Neil has become more accustomed to telling truths than lying. A few months ago, prying truths out of each other had been excruciating, like a pickaxe to the teeth. Nowadays, they trade honesty like a second language. 

“Do you want to ask the office if there’s a way we can borrow the equipment?” Neil asks, because he’s a single-minded fool when he’s determined. No kid in their right mind would spend their summer conditioning themselves for a track tryout.

Andrew gives the ghost of a shrug. Going to an air-conditioned indoor space sounds appealing enough.

The lady at the office, however, peers at them over her glasses and states that the gym and all of the field equipment are not for use during summer break.  
Andrew exchanges a glance with Neil. Neil then plasters on a charming smile and thanks the clerk.  

Outside, Andrew tosses Neil’s wallet at him; he had been holding onto it for him when he ran. Neil is now fishing out a folded napkin from it; Andrew knows that it contains two pins. After slipping his wallet into the pocket of his shorts, Neil leads them towards the store room where all the sports and field equipment are. 

Ten minutes and one busted lock later, they’re back on the field, this time at the discus cage. Andrew tests the weight of the disc after a light warm up. He gives it a few throws, letting his body get a feel for the motion. 

“What do you think?” Neil asks.

Andrew hums, non-committal. 

The tryouts are at the beginning of the upcoming semester. Bizarrely, they’re important to Neil. They’re not important to Andrew, but he’s made Neil a promise. 

So he lets his sweat drench through his clothes and lets the sunlight kiss his skin - because it’s the tail-end of summer, because he is a boy. 

*

They both make the team. 

Neil draws attention with his 100-meter and 400-meter dash times, as Andrew had predicted. The coach says that with a proper conditioning and practice regime, not only will he be able to qualify for regionals - he will also be able to literally leave other runners in the dust.  

Andrew draws attention with his inability to expend a single fuck. Apathetically, he had hurtled a shot put ball and a disc during tryouts. He had been drafted into both events, but he could tell that it almost hurt the coach to sign him on. Truly, his reputation precedes him. 

The good thing about making the team is that it’s made Neil happy. And when Neil is happy, Andrew is… well, he isn’t unhappy. 

The bad thing about it is that while he is straggling near the shot put area, Neil is on the other side of the field with the rest of the sprinters.  

He doesn’t appreciate having to stand under the sun for an extended period of time without Neil by his side to whisper scathing commentaries about their teammates and keep him entertained. 

He does, however, derive some satisfaction from being able to eye Neil from a safe distance. He thanks the person who is responsible for the invention of short shorts and whatever deity up there that is responsible for Neil’s inclination to wear them. 

He and Neil usually shower after the rest of them have left. Sometimes, they just change out and take showers at home. 

He knows Neil has scars on his body. He’s seen them once; Neil had dragged him to a swimming pool in the middle of the night two weeks into summer break. Neil’s hands had been shaking, clutched around the hem of his t-shirt - but there had been a firm set to his features. He had taken the t-shirt off, and his eyes had been steady and clear when they met Andrew’s.

Neil knows Andrew has scars on his forearms. He’s shown them to him once; Neil had slept over and Andrew had purposely left his armbands on the dresser. His pulse had been snarling like a wounded animal, blood roaring in his ears - but there had been a calm set to Neil’s features. He had flicked his gaze over the thin, systematic marks on Andrew’s arms, and his eyes had been steady and clear when they met Andrew’s. 

Andrew doesn't think he has ever had anything quite like the relationship he has with Neil, and he doesn't think he will ever have anything like it ever again. 

Neil’s locker is still across from his. He sees him there every morning before the bell rings, his books tucked under an arm as he waits for Andrew. 

This morning, he has company. Kevin Day - a senior with a superiority complex - towers over Neil with a thunderous expression on his face, backing Neil into a corner. 

It’s an instinct - an automatic decision, embedded deeply into his particles - to haul Kevin by the scruff of his neck and slam him against the lockers. 

Light bounces off the blade of Andrew’s knife, glinting like silver. It’s a switchblade, similar to Neil’s penknife in terms of deadliness. He gave it to Andrew not long after Andrew gave him a copy of his car key. 

When Kevin opens his mouth to speak, Andrew presses it harder against his throat. There is already a crowd forming around them, buzzing with morbid curiosity and mild horror. Andrew’s attention, sharp as his knife, is directed solely towards the terror in Kevin’s green eyes.  

“Andrew,” Neil says.

One word, and Andrew’s attention is snapped cleanly like a bone. 

“Andrew,” Neil says again. “Hey, it’s okay. We were just talking.”

Andrew tilts his head towards Neil. He can feel him hovering beside him, right within reach.

“Really, we were. I’m not hurt or anything.”

Blood wells onto the edge of the blade, trickling down Kevin’s throat when Andrew pulls back. Wide-eyed and pale-faced, Kevin slumps against the lockers, breathing in heavy relief. Andrew stows his switchblade before any nosy teacher could arrive, and the crowd disperses, disappointed at the anticlimactic resolve.  

Andrew fists his hand in the collar of Neil’s shirt, examining him and making sure that he wasn’t lying about not being hurt. Neil keeps quiet as he takes his fill, and only talks after Andrew releases him.  

“Quite a show you put on.”

Smart-mouthed asshole.

“Next time, let’s save the killing until there aren’t any witnesses around.”

“Next time,” Andrew retorts evenly, “try not to get into trouble.”

“I wasn’t in trouble,” Neil argues. “Besides, I’m perfectly capable of defending myself against  _Kevin_.”

“I am  _right here_.”

They both turn towards Kevin. His face is now contorted in righteous indignation rather than fear as he cups his neck protectively. Andrew’s initial impression of him - back when he was a freshman and Kevin was a sophomore - was that he was handsome.

But then he heard him talk and all sense of attraction was effectively snuffed out. 

“What is  _wrong_ with you?" Kevin Day asks. "Who brings a knife to school, anyway? Don’t you know it is against regulations?”

Case in point.

Neil gives Andrew a look, lips twitching. He schools it back into a neutral expression before addressing Kevin. “What were you saying again? Make it quick. I have trig in five minutes.”

“I was saying,” Kevin says through gritted teeth, “that you need to focus on building your endurance. Stop letting other things distract you.”

“And I was telling you that I’m not distracted.”

“You  _are_. You should be spending more time on the field.” Visibly gulping, he darts an anxious glance at Andrew. “Instead, you’re gallivanting around with -”

Andrew takes a cool, threatening step forward. Kevin flinches back, banging his head against the locker. He rubs the back of his head, wincing in pain. Andrew is unsympathetic, and neither is Neil. 

“I didn’t know that being the captain of the track team means you have complete jurisdiction over your athletes’ lives,” Neil says, flat. His hands, though, are balled into angry fists. “Newsflash, asshole: you don’t get to decide how I live my life; I do. Coach thinks I’m doing fine - better, even. I’ve cut down my times by a whole lot, and we’re not even halfway through October yet. Just stick to your pole vaulting and get off my dick.”

Neil storms away. Andrew throws a mocking salute at Kevin before following him towards the front doors. 

The bell rings. Neil is fuming, lips twisted and shoulders squared. He’s pacing back and forth in the parking lot, clenching and unclenching his hands. 

Andrew grabs his elbow, and he immediately goes still. His jutted chin makes it look like he’s pouting. Andrew would be lying if he said that he doesn’t find it endearing.

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” Neil says, waspish.

“The other thing that he told you.”

Neil works his jaw, eyebrows knitted.

“He told me to  _control_  you, told me to get you to start taking practice seriously. So I told him to fuck off, because you’re not some - some  _thing_  that can be owned and controlled like that. And then he starts spouting bullshit like how I shouldn’t be spending so much time with you because you’re a  _distraction_  that’s going to get me - and I quote -  _derailed from achieving my goals_.” 

Neil does a good imitation of Kevin, Andrew will give him that.  

He puffs a strand of hair from his eyes, shoulders sinking now that he’s aired all his rage out.

“Andrew?”

Andrew makes a noise of acknowledgment. 

Neil scuffs his sneakers against the gravel, kicking a pebble under someone’s car. His eyes are downcast. 

“I know you tried out because I asked you to, but you don’t have to stay on the team if you don’t want to. I would never force you to do anything against your will.” 

It’s exactly because he says things like this that Andrew doesn’t say no to him. He has always given Andrew a choice, and Andrew has chosen him. 

Andrew reaches out, skimming the tip of his fingers under Neil’s chin. He looks up, and their eyes meet. 

“I know,” Andrew says.

Neil’s eyes soften, pooling with something like relief, something like warmth. Andrew wishes he would stop wearing his contacts.

Andrew drops his hand. Neil steps closer, lightly knocking his knuckles against Andrew’s. 

“You know, we haven’t gone to Five Guys in a while,” Neil says with affected nonchalance. 

They spent a lot of their time there during the break, tossing the free peanuts into each other’s mouth and sharing a tall glass of milkshake and a plate of fries. Andrew didn’t bring Neil around to the house much because Aaron was at home most of the time.

Andrew lifts an eyebrow. “And your precious trigonometry class?”

Neil smiles; a tiny, soft thing that he never shows other people. “I’d rather spend time with you, I think.” 

He meant it to be sarcastic, Andrew knows, but it still makes butterflies flutter up a storm in his stomach. 

It’s exceedingly cumbersome, he thinks, being sixteen and gay. 

*

Working as a busboy at Eden’s Twilight has its perks. 

For one, the higher-ups don’t mind that Andrew and Aaron are under eighteen. For another, Roland occasionally sneaks them free drinks. 

Nicky pretends to be aghast by this, bemoaning the illegality of it all, but he doesn’t put a stop to it. He probably thinks it’s better to have the twins drinking small amounts under his watch than to have them going to wild parties and chugging down a keg of beer.  

Andrew mostly needs the money for his medications, since his insurance doesn’t cover them. The court mandate and misdiagnosis had him ingesting antipsychotics that jumbled his brain chemistry more so than they fixed it. A proper diagnosis after the year-long sentence ended had finally directed him to the help he actually needed, and it had been his choice whether to take it or refuse it. 

He had his reservations, but it was either taking the drugs or drowning in the cesspool of his depression - and the choice had been clear. 

He had surprised himself, with his willingness to give recovery a chance. It’s not like he wants to die; it’s just that he isn’t entirely ecstatic about the idea of being alive. 

The club is packed tonight. Andrew has never been more glad to take his break, skulking off through the backdoor and into the alley. Leaning against the brick wall, he fiddles with the cigarette stick he pilfered from one of the bouncers. 

He had stolen a pack from a foster parent once, when he had been twelve. He had lit one up with a matchstick, taken a single drag, and wrecked his throat with a coughing fit. His eyes had still been watering when he stomped out the cigarette under his fraying sneakers and chucked the rest of the pack into a dumpster. 

He has been thinking of trying it again. He isn’t sure what’s stopping him; maybe it’s because he doesn’t have a lighter, or maybe it’s because he knows Neil wouldn’t be happy about it, since it would be detrimental to his performance on the field. 

Knowing who he is though, he probably wouldn’t ask Andrew to quit. 

With a flick of his wrist, Andrew pitches the cigarette into the trash can beside him. 

The door creaks open. Roland steps out into the night, smiling his cocky smile. He mimics Andrew’s posture, propping a foot against the wall behind him. 

A few weeks after Andrew turned sixteen last November, he had dragged Roland into the store room and blown him. He had choked and gagged, and he had had to use his hand to finish Roland off. 

Before him, Andrew had only ever made out with one boy. It was before the court mandate, back in middle school.  

Experimenting with Roland is safe; he’s easy on the eyes, he understands that there are no strings attached to this arrangement, he knows not to touch Andrew, and he has been patient with Andrew’s inexperience. Andrew could make do without all the amused snickering though.  

The last time they hooked up, however, had been back in February. He knows that Roland has been wanting to know why, his dark blue eyes brimming with curiosity as they follow Andrew around the club on some nights.

“You’ve been distant,” he says. “You don’t owe me an explanation of course, but I have to admit I’m curious.”

Andrew doesn’t even spare him a glance. “And you will remain as such.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that.” Roland’s voice is as light and playful as it always is. “I’ll give you an extra shot tonight if you tell me.”

So much for getting some peace and quiet during his break, Andrew muses detachedly.   

His phone vibrates in his pocket. He swipes it open to find two new texts from Neil.

_Fell asleep at my desk reading The Great Gatsby. It’s a stupid book and I don’t understand why we need to read it for class._

_Hope you’re having more fun than I am at work. Good night._

Fondness spreads through his chest like water ripples. It’s an odd sensation, quiet and non-destructive. It’s a novelty he hasn’t learned to shake off, despite the amount of time he’s spent with Neil. 

“Oh,” Roland says beside him, “so that’s why.”

Andrew gives him a blank look, turning his phone screen off. 

Roland holds his hands up in a  _I-mean-no-harm_  gesture, lips pulled into a wide grin. 

“Okay, okay, I’m not gonna say anything about it. But I’m happy for you, y’know?” He sighs, wistful. “I remember when I was your age. Those were the days.”

Andrew does not point out that Roland is only three years older than he is. He leaves him in the alley and trudges back to the kitchen, where he narrowly bumps into Aaron.  

He looks at Andrew like he has something to say, but then he hastily averts his gaze and tightens his jaw - a pattern that’s becoming increasingly frequent in the past couple of months. He ducks out for his own break, and Andrew really cannot be bothered to micro-analyze his brother right now. 

There is still a few hours hours left before his shift ends. He has school and field practice tomorrow, and aside from lunch period, he and Neil won’t be able to spend time together - just the two of them - until the weekend. 

Andrew breathes in, then breathes out. 

The thing about him is that he doesn’t really care about staying alive. 

But it’s junior year. He is turning seventeen in less than a month. At the axis of his small universe is a knife-wielding boy with a disarming smile and a scar-littered body. 

Somehow, it doesn’t feel too bad.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My [tumblr](http://nakasomethingkun.tumblr.com).


End file.
